


The First Cold Day of October

by JonathansNightFlight



Series: Thirty flavours of falling with you [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, And also Vague Sex Scenes, At this point Hannibal is not even trying to be a manipulative bastard, Chronic Pain, Explicit Sexual Content, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Rimming, Vague PTSD references, Will let's go, it is simply his natural state, mildly awful kink negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 07:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonathansNightFlight/pseuds/JonathansNightFlight
Summary: Almost three months after surviving the Fall and washing up somewhere North, Hannibal and Will are carving a present for themselves. Until one day, they feel the first cold day of the season.Soft love, letting go, under-negotiated kinks, keeping warm, chronic pain management, sex-on-drugs and just a lick of food porn.





	The First Cold Day of October

Hannibal woke up with a shiver that morning. It was only the first week of October, but that far North, the first cold of the season had teeth. His bare feet, warmed through the night between delicious thighs, made reluctant contact with the wooden floor. A lesser man might have paused at that, maybe even returned to the comfort of blankets and his sleep-warm companion, but Hannibal was hardly even defined as a man. With light steps he made his way to the bathroom, mind already detailing four distinctive plans for the day ahead - and only one of them involved the purchase of thicker carpets.

It was already mid-morning by the time Will entered the kitchen. Steps heavier, body stiffer, brow furrowed - as Hannibal expected.

“Smells good” Will offered his morning greetings.

“So it does” Hannibal accepted them graciously. Like an appeased deity, he placed a cup of freshly brewed coffee in front of Will. Lingering, he pressed a kiss on the hurt-lines marring Will’s forehead.

“Good morning” He let the words linger, savouring their taste, savouring Will’s taste, before adding “If you would. What is the level of pain in your arm?”

Will grimaced. “Depends on the scale”, he pressed his good hand against tight eyes and let the left side of his face rise in a toothy grin “Since we can reasonably expect the temperature to drop to minus 20 Celsius before January is over, I think it is wise to reserve epithets like ‘ _crippling_ ’ and ‘ _debilitating_ ’ for the days ahead.”

Hannibal made an admonishing sound. “It is not all downhill from here, Will. Your body still has healing to do.”

“It seems that’s all my body does. Tell me Hannibal, what happens when it runs out of healing?” And then, seeing Hannibal’s features darken, “I did not mean it.”

They shared a look. Something trembled in Hannibal, and Will shook his head.

“I can hear you thinking. Stop thinking. You knew I was a grump before you ever tried to elope with me.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows shot up, the heavy atmosphere defused - and Will was laughing, light-headed in relief, Hannibal kissing the chuckles off his lips. The kisses were sufficiently soft and sloppy.

“I baked you buttermilk biscuits” whispered words between kisses “accompanied by a white chocolate fondue and”, a pause to suckle on Will’s full lower lip, ”hand-picked forrest berries.”

Will watched Hannibal move around the counter, plating, decorating, pouring. Some tension escaped his tendons, eyes tracking easy Hannibal’s repetitive motions. A gentle tap on his hand brought him back. In front of him, fork and knife, and between them a single plate with two biscuits - crust glossy and perfectly cracked - and a scattering of berries. In Hannibal’s hand an off-white porcelain swan was overflowing with fondue.

“May I?” Will nodded, and Hannibal’s wrist wove in confident ellipses, coating the biscuits with lacy swirls of sauce. Will breathed in the heavy scent of buttermilk.

“Appealing to my olfactory memories?”

Hannibal, not missing a beat, dipped a fingertip in the fondue. One hand rose to cup Will’s face. Will let his mouth slacken, lips parting; a hint of tongue. Accepting the invitation, Hannibal let his finger slide in. Both men’s eyes fluttered close; Will’s senses indulging in the thick sweetness, Hannibal delighting in the warm suction.

“I wish to appeal to your senses, as well as your memories. If you will have me.” Will’s mouth quirked into something coy and unformed, so instead of speaking he forced his arm to work the cutlery. He brought a dripping forkful to his lips. It was, of course, heavenly.

“And this is a feast of senses for only one?” Will pointed his knife at the single plate on the table.

“This is most definitely a feast savoured equally by two” Hannibal allowed his hunger to show in his eyes, nakedly staring into Will’s face, taking in the movement of his jaws, the spit slick of his lips, his still moist hair. And then he culled the thick want with a smile. “But I am afraid I must abstain from feasting on such rich culinary delights for a while longer”. He didn’t have to explain, or mention the still healing bullet wound; Will’s eyes drifted to Hannibal's middle. He expected the usual nauseating guilt that associated most memories of the fall to grip his stomach, but nothing happened. He took another bite.

There were only a few berries left, drowning in thick white creaminess, when Will lifted his head again. He frowned. His shoulder did not complain at the motion. He tried to form a sequence of words, but his mouth felt dry. Fuzzy.

“Oh” and then “Hannibal. Did you just bake me _space... southern biscuits_?” His own words sounded incredulous to him. Will met Hannibal’s eyes - they were lively, curious - and schooled his own features into something approximating offence. He wasn’t sure how successful he was, since he couldn’t stop pushing the inside of his teeth with his tongue.

“I would never do that to the biscuits” Hannibal said. And then, finger dipping once more in the cooling sauce “I added THC to the butter I used for the fondue.” He brought the finger to his own lips, and, without breaking eye contact, he sucked.

Will’s expression danced on a knife’s edge. For a minute, he faltered between shades of different emotions. He closed his eyes. Breathed in. Out.

“What part of our shared history makes you think that drugging my food is a good idea?”

“Your cannabinoid receptors engage better when your body is not in a state of stress.”

“Bullshit.”

“You swallow every pill I give you. Without question.”

“This was not a pill.”

A pause.

“During the first few weeks I was drugging your water. Antibiotics and secondary painkillers.”

Will squeezed his eyes shut, expecting a migraine that wouldn’t come. Just a mild dizziness. “Hannibal” It was a groan more than words. Then Will shook his head. When he opened his eyes again, the room felt rounder, softer and sharper at once, and Hannibal was seating ramrod straight in his chair looking straight ahead. He looked pained.

“Was this a line crossed, Will?” For a split second, Will was hit by the immediacy of the other man’s self-doubt. He could never get used to seeing it in Hannibal.

A breath. “No. Not this one, I don’t think.” Hannibal's posture relaxed by a fraction. Will touched his lips. They felt swollen and numb, like they belonged to someone else. “I understand what you are doing. Why. It feels good. Safe.”

“We will need to talk about this.” Hannibal gestured a hand towards something imperceptible “Lines.”

Will frowned, eyes unfocused. “I’d rather we did not.”

“And I’d rather know what might cause you to leave me.” Voice low.

“Nothing,” a whisper.

“What will cause you to resent me, then. To resent us.”

Will’s eyes focused on him. A gentle serenity eclipsed the frown. “You have been good. I never tell you that, but you have been so good since.” The thought broke.

“Since when, Will?”

“Since we eloped.” He allowed a smile, and Hannibal could feel the sun kissing his skin in the middle of the cloudy Autumn day.

Hannibal touched Will’s face, rubbed an earlobe between to fingers, and Will leaned into his touch. All was soft and right.

He stood, carried the plates to the sink, and let the physical movements of washing up soothe him.

Will was resting his forehead on the solid oakwood of the table, tracing the water stains with tingling palms.

He kept tracing as warm hands run up his nape, smooth pressure. Fingers scratching behind ears, massaging all aches away. Will sighed only to realise the sound had turned into a moan as it escaped his body.

“Have you ever engaged in intercourse while high, Will?”

“I don’t think I’d currently be the most present lover”, a self admonishing smirk. “And yes, a front-seat blowjob”.

“Were you on the giving or the receiving end?”

“Giving”, he yawned, “I didn’t own a car until after college.”

Hannibal turned his head just so, and kept massaging the warm flesh down to the clavicle. Will’s head bobbed against the table, torn between relaxation and sensory overload.

“Will, up”, a hand, guiding him, around his ribcage, palm splayed against his sluggish heartbeat.

The floor was still cold, but Will couldn’t keep his focus on it. Half-digested sentences were coming up to his lips and shimmering down. He held on tighter against Hannibal’s sweater. He pressed his face against it, not too soft, not too coarse, and inhaled - there were notes of sweet butter, and sweat, and deeper still, he could inhale the very particles that made Hannibal.

It took a long time to walk the short distance between the kitchen and their bedroom, but Will conceded it might have been a trick of perception. He felt the bed coming to meet the back of his calves and Hannibal gently pulled back. Will’s face was cold again; his nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Just how much weed have I ingested?”

“Not quite weed. And, enough” Hannibal smiled at him.

Will tried to touch his nose, missed and almost poked his left eye instead. Hannibal took the questing hand between his own and kissed each fingertip. Will breathed a laugh after each peck.

“Or maybe a touch more.”

“Or maybe a touch more,” Will mimicked, deadpan, and then they were locked in an open-mouthed kiss. It rolled between them and crushed like a wave that left them heaving.

The walls moved, a smooth tilt, his weight was carried off until he was floating and Will was left counting the cracks on the ceiling. His body jerked as he felt practiced fingers undressing him - efficiently, clinically. His body shivered with the echo of a memory, muscles locking.

“Hannibal.” The hands stilled, ghosting over his cock. Will shivered down to his thighs, trapped in his half-lowered boxers.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” his hips rolled, chasing after a retreating hand, and he stifled a moan, eyes closed. He felt colour blotching his face, not quite in shame, but forcing him to squirm nonetheless. As he moved, the covers below his midriff came alive, silken, setting nerve receptors on fire. His hips rolled once more.

“Tell me why, Will.” Hannibal’s voice came from somewhere close to his left ear and he felt his scar tighten.

“I don’t think”, Hannibal shifted on top of him, and that was positively not fair play, “fuck! Hannibal, I don’t think I can even get it up right now, much less fuck you”.

It was no lie. Will’s cock was resting against his thigh, occasionally twitching in mild interest but mostly flaccid.

“Sweetheart, look at me.” Will’s ears were burning. Fighting against the urge to dissolve he willed his eyes open. He gasped, then cursed in the same breath.

Hannibal was inches away, something wild, and soft and rueful darkening his eyes. Longer strands were hanging from his forehead, casting his face in darker shadows yet. Will shivered, and this time it was a liquid, like a trickle of lava passing through his body.

“I want you to let me take care of you.” Will could count the moments when Hannibal would let raw need stain his voice with one hand. He wasn’t prepared - the words hit him chest-first and penetrated deeply, as if his skin was made out of gelatine.

“I want you to let go,” Hannibal stroke his curls and Will leaned into the touch, choking on a whimper. “You are capable of such transcendence, such total abandon.”

Hannibal blinked and his eyes were fire, and Will felt a drop of moisture land on his throat, and it burned like acid.

“Can you do this for me, Will?”

Will choked a sound. He turned to bury his face against a pillow, suddenly certain that Hannibal would read the eagerness etched on his features.

“It will not be much fun for you,” he said, voice muffled, “I will be hardly responsive,” he pressed a hand between his thighs and bucked, to relieve the sensory pressure. “It will be like fucking a doll.”

Hannibal placed a hand under his chin, tilting his face away from the pillow “and the Little Prince said, J'aurai l'air d'avoir mal…” He pressed a kiss on Will’s left brow, “j’aurai un peu l'air de mourir.” Then on his right “C’est comme ça.” On his right cheek, ”Ne viens pas voir ça,” on his left, “ce n'est pas la peine…” and with the last breathy words he kissed into his mouth. For long moments Hannibal run his tongue against Will’s mouth, licking the hyper-sensitive flesh raw. “Will you let me?”

“Yes.” The answer was little more than raspy breath.

Hannibal sealed the moment with one more kiss and a breathless “thank you”. In moments, he was slithering down Will’s body, removing clothes and rearranging their limbs.

There was cotton down Will’s throat and his limbs felt like bendy liquorice. There was buzzing and suddenly he felt the terror of something wild and dangerous settling between his legs, claws tracing the back of his thighs and - _lifting_ -. His eyes opened and for a heartbeat the Wendigo was there - horned head inches from his groin, talons circling his thighs. He shivered. It blinked back at him, starved and gentle, blinding sun behind its head, and then it bowed and licked and Will’s eyes were seared in pure light.

Will was consumed. There was terrible heat and liquid pressure. The sucking paused and he could see the Wendigo again - jaw unlocked, swallowing thickly around his soft cock, his balls, mouthing the tender flesh between his thighs. There was more suction and then burning pressure, as the claws held him tighter, forcing his thighs higher, and higher, until Will was folded in half.

And then the wet heat moved lower, licking fiery strips beneath his groin, finding his hole. Breath searing the puckered flesh. A nibble, and then wet firmness pushing in. There was tongue, and lips, and solid pressure, and then the claws were back in the inside if his thighs, trailing pink lines in their wake.

Will tried to force his heartbeat to slow down. He blinked until the image of Wendigo paled. He could see the ceiling once more. Then Hannibal pushed two fingers in, and Will gurgled around a scream. His hips bucked, trying to escape the pressure, but there was no give, only burn, and then light.

The Wendigo rose like thick smoke and curled itself around him. Will reached for its face and then he was looking into Hannibal’s eyes. A disembodied voice - Hannibal’s or maybe his - asked him to follow, and he reached for the clawed hand and then floated.

The rest was staccato images, warmth and pressure. Kitten licks, sharp pressure at his rim, slick slide of flesh on flesh. Static. Overload in throbbing red. His eyes snapping open to see Hannibal, human and wrinkled, drops of sweat gathering on his forehead, tired; but eyes burning embers and jaw slack, drinking Will in like a man meeting his god for the first time. Will felt boundless, elevated - years later, he would recognise an echo of Hannibal’s worshipful gaze during a particularly sublime performance of La favola d'Orfeo in Niche - and then a particularly vicious thrust melts his awareness back into blinding gold.

Will came back to himself gradually, peacefully, one sense at a time. First was touch. A warm cloth was drying the inside of his thighs. The walls were bruised in the colours of dusk. Will mouth tasted heavy. He tried to move, get up, but then Hannibal was on him, gathering him against his chest. Pressing kisses on his hairline, humming soothingly. Will made to complain but he realised he was crying.

He tried the words “I am ok, you know.”

“You are better than ok, Will. You are sublime.”

Will allowed himself to be held for a moment more. “I will have to get up to piss and eat, eventually. In this order.”

“Eventually”, Hannibal agreed.

“I know what this was,” Will stated. Without looking, he could tell that Hannibal had raised an eyebrow.

“And that was?”

Will shook his head. “No, you tell me. I need to hear it from you.”

Hannibal smiled and indulged him, because that’s what he did.

“This was a promise.”

“A promise?”

“A promise to you. The nights will get longer, and the cold stronger. And the pain might grow sharper teeth. But I won’t let it consume you.”

“Because you will be there to consume me.”

“That, I will be.”

Will clenched a fist on his damaged side. His body tightened, and then smaller aches awoke. It was… not entirely unpleasant.

“I am hungry. Will you make us something to eat?”

Hannibal nodded, gently untangling their bodies to get up. “Let me guess, should I skip the THC?”

Will smiled, something toothy and wild, and briefly, he wondered if he wasn’t the one who consumed the Wendigo and not the other way around, in the end.

“You know what? Surprise me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal is quoting a line from chapter 26 of The Little Prince in French, which coincidentally happens to be my favourite book. What a coincidence!


End file.
